Gone
by Celli
Summary: Alternate ending for "Q and A." Vaughn POV. Character death. You do the math.


Gone  
By Celli Lane 

Feedback: Positive or negative both welcome. celli@fanfiction.net  
Category: Angst (and lots of it); Alternate Ending for "Q and A"  
Rating: PG-13 for language  
Spoilers: Up through "Q and A."  
Summary: More Vaughn POV, more shippy angst.  
Archiving: Primarily on my fic site, http://www.geocities.com/hcdoom/   
Otherwise, just let me know where so I can come visit it.  
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various other people with lawyers.   
Sadly, this means Vaughn will never be mine. I'd take Eric as a consolation prize... 

Warnings: Character death, AU. 

*** 

I check my watch for probably the twentieth time. Bristow called a half hour ago and said   
to get to the warehouse ASAP. Where the hell is he? 

Finally, a car pulls up. I am not going to go running out there to see if Sydney is with him. I   
stare blankly at the ground until I hear footsteps. Just one set. 

"Where's Sydney? The pilot has been calling me every ten minutes. The FBI is going to figure   
out where she's headed if we wait much longer. What--" 

Then I get a good look at his face. Bristow is fifty-three years old; right now he looks decades,   
centuries older. Shit. 

"What happened? ...Jack?" 

He drops into a chair. "They knew. Someone knew what car she would be driving." 

Son of a...Haladki. I am going to destroy that weasel's career if he's hurt Sydney. "She's back in   
custody?" 

"No." 

"I don't--" 

"They chased her to a pier. She was blocked in..." He's slumped over, and it suddenly occurs to   
me that he hasn't looked me in the eye since he walked in here. "She drove in." 

"She's in hiding?" 

"No." 

"Missing?" No. No, no, no! 

"She...they found her--found Sydney in the car with her seat belt still on." 

"No. It's a trick. SD-6--" 

"Vaughn." Now he looks me full in the face, and I wish he hadn't. "I just got back from the   
morgue. It's no trick." 

I'm halfway out the door by the time he finishes the sentence. 

*** 

By the time Bristow catches up with me, I've already got my trunk open. "What the hell are   
you doing, Agent Vaughn?" 

I check the clip before sliding it back in. Precise, efficient movements; my hands are not shaking   
in the slightest. "I'm going to Sloane's house. I'm going to knock on his door. When he answers it,   
I'm going to shoot him." 

"You might as well shoot yourself while you're at it." 

"I don't care. Sydney wanted him dead. This is the least I can do for her." This is all I can do for   
her. 

"Vaughn--" 

"You need to get out of here. Sydney's de--what happened to Sydney will probably blow both   
your covers wide open. It's time for that flight to Switzerland, Mr. Bristow." I slam the trunk shut   
and start to walk away. 

"Goddammit!" Bristow grabs me and throws me against the side of my car. "Listen to me! If you go   
after him now, it's all for nothing!" 

"Not nothing!" 

"Not enough!" He eases off a little. "Right now I'd gladly blow all of SD-6 to hell. And the DSR for   
good measure. But it's not enough." 

I straighten up, and he backs a step away. "What, then?" 

"The mission--" His voice breaks, just for a second. "This mission is the only thing Sydney and I had   
in common. Destroying SD-6 and the Alliance." 

"You can't stay in. You can't keep going." 

"I can. With your help." 

*** 

Six months later  
University of Southern California 

I'm sitting on a bench next to one of the many fountains on the USC campus, pretending to read a   
Russian Literature book and trying to ignore the feeling of my new haircut. Eric says the longer hair and   
the bleach job make me look ten years younger. I say they make me look like an idiot. 

There's someone in front of me, blocking out the sun. I look up and nearly swallow my tongue when I   
see a familiar face. Shit, it's Dixon! 

"Michael Vail?" 

He doesn't know me. Right. Breathe, Vaughn. "Yeah?" 

"I'm Mark Dickens. I'm a recruiter for the United States government." He holds out a business card.   
"Do you have a moment?" 

It feels weird to smile, like I haven't used the muscles in six months. "Have a seat, Mr. Dickens." 

"The good news is I'm better  
For the time we spent together  
And the bad news is you're gone..."  
--"You're Gone," Diamond Rio 

--the end-- 

Author's Note: Again, thanks to Lizbet (aka Rhiannon); this story owes a great deal to her "Alternates."   
Also to Jen, for the weekly phone calls that save my sanity. I am better for the time we spend together.


End file.
